


Mirror

by teasmudge



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Allegory, Biblical References, Black Cum, Canon Compliant, Demon Sebastian, Demon Sex, Identity Porn, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Narcissism, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetic, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Roughness, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 22:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17816558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasmudge/pseuds/teasmudge
Summary: A vignette in which Sebastian Michaelis explores the sumptuousness of his own reflection.Dedicated to my Sebastian.





	Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse the typos pls, ya girl will edit it eventually.
> 
> AND. Of course, credit to the heart of this fandom @Chromehoplite (Misshoplite), for inspiring all things pomme, and 613, and black cum.

 :

All was still. The night blanketed the manor’s drawing room with shadowy sheets of twilight. Moonlight filtered from the thick voile of the curtains in sheer effulgence and sprinkled the air with powdery shimmers of evening.

 

Footsteps echoed precariously from somewhere down the hall and the room shuddered with the creak of the door when he entered. Instantaneously, the delicate light was _devoured,_ and the room went black with Sebastian.

 

His presence seemed to pacify the room’s heartbeat, to unwillingly captivate its attention as if he had somehow absorbed the area within the venom of his unyielding existence.

 

Afternoon supper had perfumed his gloves with black tea. He could taste the aromatic crush of their leaves as he slid them off of his hands with his teeth. His lips pursed with its flavour as he held the gloves in his mouth, distracted by the bareness of his palms. He allowed his fingers to play melodies with the halcyon of the air so he could observe when his knuckles tensed the veins of his hands elegantly.

 

His peripheral vision caught sight of mimicked movements in alluring speculum. The culprit: a massive mirror that inhabited the seating area opposite the windows. It sung to him like a siren as he sauntered across the room in brisk devotion, involuntarily wilting the opulent vase of freshly groomed hydrangeas in the vehemence of his zealous wake. Distracted by the sight of himself, Sebastian hastily set his gloves down on a gold encrusted buffet of assorted liqueurs and baroque china.

 

The bodice of various sculptured faces, of which decorated the space around his presence, seemed to follow his willowy movement with the stone of their eyes. As slow as a viper, he rendezvoused with the mirror’s charming reflection. It was true, Sebastian admired any mirror, but this one had quickly become his favourite. Assuredly.

 

And just like that, the image of himself echoed like music from the mirror, to touch every edge of the room with the marvel of his reflective duplication. He became a mural of black, and red, and evil. A masterpiece.

 

_“The artist invites us to pay lip-service to condemning her,” writes Edwin Mullins, “while offering us full permission to drool over her. She admires herself in the glass, while we treat the picture that purports to incriminate her as another kind of glass—a window—through which we peer and secretly desire her.”(1)_

 

He watched himself unclasp his impeccably ironed tailcoat. A wicked smirk grew on his face when he began unbuttoning his vest, knowing full well that he could simply corrode the clothes off of his body tout de suite. But he liked to watch.

 

For aesthetic’s sake, he preened at the discarded clothes atop a nearby chunk of finely carved mahogany and proceeded to fold them with inhuman perfection. Without releasing his florid gaze from the mirror, he laid the heap of black linen to rest, already forgotten, next to an antiqued paperweight made of glass, and shaped like a peafowl.

 

His fingers swam through the tresses of his slinky black hair sensuously, then crawled to the shore of the lapel on his immaculately pressed shirt. As proper gentlemen should, he loosened the tie that he wore around his neck like a noose. Back and forth, and side to side, in silky leisure.

 

Asphyxiated fire fizzled in the prison of his stare as he put on a private show for himself, like an inferno of fixated scarlet.

 

Teasingly, he used his thumb to tug at the long end of the tie in a pleasant glide, until he reached the tip of the inky taffeta and it fell apart altogether, unwrinkled, and smooth, and relaxed. It dangled handsomely on either side of his collar and cascaded down the puff of his chest like pouring wine.

 

The ivory clasped alloy of his shirt came next, and he prodded their buttons open lavishly, one after the other. The lily-white cotton of his garment made way for rigid marble in an especially charming and noxious cascade of rippled muscle and taut flesh.

 

In an ode to Narcissus, he eulogized his calamitous smile as it grew over the faucet of his visage like a horizon of devastation. Extraordinary, indeed. All angles, and sharpness, and a certain agile proclivity. Jaguar-like eyelashes lilted the sanguine of his lidded gaze in salacious contempt as he cherished the symmetry of himself. His jaw squared and clenched in that special way, pulling with the evil stretch of his mouth, staining his fanged grin with the cherry-red sheen of his lips. Finely glossed strands of ebon wafted in raging winds of captivation down the side of his chiseled face, tantalizing the paleness of his complexion with black threads of winding silk. A framed picture.

 

Wandering light fell upon his skin in oracles, and for a moment, he looked like dawn. Until his eyes coated its sheen with their evil, and he became the eclipse that espoused it. Sebastian was not a handsome man, he was _mesmeric._

 

He stared at the mirror in complete intoxication, like he was whisky in a bottle. There was not one specific thing that made Sebastian attractive, though the colour that marred his gaze with fire came close. He was beautiful because of what lurked within: putrid sin. It dissolved inside of him like ether and secreted through his features in magmatic sublimity.

 

And, oh. The scintilla of electric fire coiling inside of his gut flustered him out his reverie.

 

Swiftly, the clutch of his grip snapped his tie off like a whip and it lashed in a zip of ink to join his discarded gloves for a drink at the bar of gold from somewhere behind him.

 

The pitter patter of his hands told hushed secrets to the creases of fabric that clothed the contour of his arms. Almost demurely, because he sort of made himself timid in the way that he refused to look away.

 

_Ah, how lovely it is to observe, as the fragility of beauty traverses through the abysmal depths of seduction in woven strings of glamour coated sin._

 

The pads of his fingers finished un-cuffing his opened shirt, and he pulled the garment through his arms and past the angle of his shoulders, unveiling a mosaic of exposed skin.

 

With an uninterested flick of his finger, the disrobed shirt flew across the room and hooked its neck on a floor length lampshade because one knows they mustn’t fold shirts, lest they crinkle and crease unpleasantly.

 

Sebastian was celestial, and maybe that was why he lost all sense of time when he looked upon himself. The tendons on his marbled arms swelled like crescents up to the tense of his neck when he moved, and faraway light poured over the stone of his abdomen like liquid lustre. It seemed to swim in the dips of collarbones in the same way that the moon salaciously skims the ocean, in waves.

 

He couldn’t help it when his attention adverted down his body in nostalgia. Below his navel, a dark and wicked path of hair followed a downward like slope from in between the sharp v-shaped-jut of bone on the narrow of his hips. The coarse cilium crawled tauntingly behind the waistband of sleek black trousers; perfectly tailored and plumped slightly around his groin, painting the black of his pants with the beginnings of arousal. His chassis was engraved scripture, metaphysical directions that ushered a disgustingly smooth passage straight to Hell.

As if he were surprising himself, his eyes amalgamated in vats of gushing red acid towards the junction of his legs when he began to unzip his trousers. Not quite coyly, he grinned like a cheshire cat when he dragged the thin fabric of his pants over the curve of his hips and passed the toned globe of his ass to reveal his naughty little secret.

 

_“What are you doing, you devastated one? Why dress yourself in scarlet and put on jewels of gold? Why highlight your eyes with makeup? You adorn yourself in vain. Your lovers despise you; they want to kill you.”(2)_

 

Sebastian’s eyebrows raised mischievously and he gasped lowly, feigning mock horror to the mirror—because yes, he had an exceptional sense of humour— as the dark arrangement of his unmentionables made themselves mentionable by the drop of his pants, a saving grace. Ineffable fabric covered the skin around his cock in the same way that panties would. Shiny, and exiguous, and inhumanly tight. Vain. Created from the same matter of those heinously-scanty boots.

 

He doted on himself. Moved the material up and down his pelvic bone, letting it graze pleasantly across the peak of his beating length. So soft. And torturous, like arguing with oneself. A winning and losing battle. Simultaneous implosion.

 

The panties clung to his body like wet linen, and he stared at the swelling press of his cock against their velveteen grasp until he could take it no longer. He allowed himself to demonically maraud the lingerie and enjoyed the feeling of it stretching against his unclean flesh.

 

_Corruption, watching something beautiful die by his hand._

 

He raised a larger snippet of the torn fabric up to his nose and inhaled its scent. Nasty, and evil, and him. To Sebastian, it smelt like sentimentality, and it tasted like the charms of ephemerality.

 

_Homologous transience. Dusk was a kaleidoscope of magnificent brevities, repeatedly succumbing itself to the anguish of nightfall for the thrill of it._

 

What was left of the disheveled lingerie floated aimlessly to the floor where it met with the dense plush of Persian carpet in shredded plumes of black. Sebastian tilted his head at the mess he’d made, and no, that certainly would not do. Suddenly, the pieces of fallen fabric perished from existence in helpless flickers of dissolving ash. Tidy, much better.

 

He felt the head of his newly freed cock kiss the smoothness of his navel adoringly, longingly. Like wet breaths of fresh air.

 

The snarled sigh that tumbled out of his mouth like fire reminded his compulsively-obsessed conscience that his pants were still pooled around his feet on the floor, and should he not act quickly, they would surely crumple unattractively. How bothersome.

 

Pleated socks hugged his ankles from above the clutch of his patent leather oxfords in obvious sophistication. He posed himself to the side, adored the way his bare calves tensed under the smoothness of his skin, pointed his toes out, and stepped out of the tousled pants.

 

The trousers found themselves on a familiar cabinet, bent neatly over the rest of his previously arranged clothes, where they shrouded the glass-eyed peacock unceremoniously.

 

His legs were very long and beautiful, full and smooth in all of the right places. Stretched perfectly, like they could slip off the edge of the planet. He found himself stepping back and looking over his shoulder at himself through the mirror as he moved towards the strategically placed chair that faced the mirror just so.

 

He shared a glance with himself at that moment, and it told all of the secrets of the universe. Within the coruscate of that gaze, he found something that mere humans could not imagine. A thing that everyone spends a lifetime searching for, but can never find.

 

The chair was antique, a distant memory from the ruins of the french revolution. It was plush and tufted in crushed velvet, supported by ornate barks of carved white oak.

 

When it felt right, he descended upon the seat like a right bastard, and in a corrupting glissade of shadows, brought one leg over the other. Tainted leather plummeted like sin across the expanse of his arrogant thighs and slithered unnaturally down his legs in a balboa of black. Albeit briefly, he sat shiva for the cruel death of his favourite oxfords which mollified like molten chocolate to the tips of his feet in pointy bouts of candied leather. He wore them like they were made for him, because they were. And if you asked Sebastian, he would say that he wore them because seduction is the perfect, and for all one knows, the only breeding ground for evil.

 

He succumbed to the delicacy of his reflection, and ordered the mirror to morph into the nightmarish shatters of his unquantifiable fantasies.

 

Yes, he would indulge in the voyeur that smirked back at him. Allow his desire to boil under his skin until it festered. Gratification could only reach its utopian precipice with patience, after all.

 

He coaxed the mirror in vicious manipulation. A devil’s dance. It cracked in varicoloured translucence until it gave in to his potency and emulated the chattels of his naked body, smiling wickedly, and holding what looked to be a ripened pomegranate.

 

_Round, and red, and rakish. But this fruit did not bore from the Gardens of Jannah. No, it sprouted from somewhere far worse, in the fields of death._

 

Black nails squished at the pulsing fruit as if it were a beating heart, and its juicy nectar dribbled down his arm obscenely, like goat blood.

 

Achingly, the pome bursted in a song of ambrosia, all for him, because of him. And he watched in simulate vexation as the captivatingly lecherous image of himself tilted his elbows like the drawback of a bow, and crawled his tongue over the gushing fluid that marred his forearm.

 

_The kiss of unity; a tethered knot of flesh, and mind, and six-hundred-and-thirteen reasons to sin. It besmirched his mouth red with its blood. (4)_

 

The real Sebastian sat still, cross legged on the plush of his seat, eyes glued to the fantasy in the mirror, hand bent elegantly as it supported the abysmal weight of his ego in the same way that gravity holds up the earth, unfathomably.

 

Again, the mirror rippled in contortion. A crepuscular nest of feathers floated in tarred puffs of pollen down to the imitated Persian rug beneath his heeled feet, and he continued to watch through the mirror in unwavering worship as the image of himself picked one of the feathers up and began to tickle it all over his body in delicate convulsion.

 

_When muse turns painter, true art unfolds itself to reveal the purest of expressions: self-portrait._

 

Each plume licked at the plasma of pomegranate that honied over his skin in flimsy yearning. Because it felt so nice and fluffy, he beckoned them to trace the cursives of his lust all over the parchment of his pappy flesh.

 

_First came rebirth. Then, the baptism. As for its name, it was known as endogenous sufficiency. Love thy self, proclaimed He._

 

The throb of his cock against his crossed legs awoke him from the lucidity of his daydream, demanding his attention like catastrophe. Sebastian’s cock begged to know the touch of his hands in the way that it pulsed over his lap like a prayer, and he couldn’t help but chuckle in delighted echo at the greedy thing.

 

Hollowed cheeks welcomed the intrusion of his long fingers. He suckled around them in greeting, burrowed them in the home of syrupy spit between the slip of his tongue and the roof of his throat and got it nice, and wet, and sticky.

 

When he pulled apart from the gentle caress of his swollen lips, it released in a disgustingly wet smack of sweet goodbyes. Its evidence manifested in a trail of saliva that held on to his fingers like strings of runny silk.

 

He pulled at it voluptuously and poured it over the slick of his cock like icing on a cake.

 

Then he touched himself, finally.

 

Sebastian hissed like a snake and his cock trembled inside of the warm embrace that his palm provided. The flutter of his lashes proved to be coy, but the steady flicker of his wrists moved just right, almost as if he was thanking himself.

 

The muscles of his stomach convulsed under the scrutiny of his gaze, along with the subtle tightening of his grip, which squeezed his cock perfectly.

 

Billowing tendrils of black made themselves known, thanks to Sebastian’s sudden lack of composure and fevered impertinence. The violence of their silkened grasp wrapped themselves like vipers around the plush of his leathery thighs and spread them open to prevent himself from squeezing them together. He was bound to himself, wide and waiting, and feral. Like a pat on the back, self care.

 

He fondled his cock as if he were petting a kitty. It purred in response, vibrating and kneading itself against the mercy of his hands. Black goo permeated the imminence of his arousal as it seeped generously from the slit on the head of his engorged cock in ribbons of sugared ink.

 

His eyebrows creased and his teeth clacked in the cage of his mouth. Sebastian became lost in himself all over again, and began to jerk himself wickedly, like he was angry. The harshness of his gesture made his cock mewl with need, so he twisted his hands just fucking right and pumped himself sorry: an apology.

 

All at once, he was out of the chair and on his knees, mere inches from the mirror, submitting to himself. Panting, and growling, and shivering, because it looked so irreproachably righteous.

 

His pelvis became a sculpted pedestal, supported by the alter of petrified stone that was his splayed legs. The distress of his erection dangled surreptitiously from in between them in resplendent offering, oozing and aching to be sacrificed.

 

Sebastian undulated gorgeously and the air crackled around him like fire. The glossy leather of his boots stretched obscenely over his tensed thighs and their pointed heels dug deliciously into the plump of his ass cheeks. He watched himself wiggle against them prettily. His sticky hands wound themselves around his hair as he thrusted his hips in messy little circles of bliss. He smiled.

 

_Pain is a pleasure, disfigured by the tortured chains of malaise._

 

His fingers ran a marathon up the side of his body to pledge themselves to the pert of his rosy nipples, and he tried his best to keep his eyes focused on the reflection before him, but his head tilted in disobedient mania nonetheless.

 

He growled because it felt good, and it looked even better.

 

Sebastian’s entire face smirked when he felt his ball sack trying to retract itself into the warmth of his body, and he mocked himself by squishing it back in place.

 

He wielded himself like a weapon, patrolled the force with which he pumped as he repeatedly disappeared and then reappeared from the iron-like buckle of his dirty hands. He begged himself to move slower.

 

Delicious misery. Sebastian appraised the absurdity of contradiction. He wished to digest himself entirely. In velocious contempt, all at once. At the same time, he yearned to bask in the luxury of the delicately cultivated broth that circumscribed this moment of brief sensation.

 

Hot, like a blaze rod. The aubade inside of him wanted to combust in rage. Despite this, he went even faster, arched himself wider in sinister tribulation. And still, he considered himself gentle, reckoned himself flirtatious in the curve of his movements. Thought himself elegant and efficacious when he plowed straight through the flames that ignited the pyre of his desire, and sifted through the rubbled ashes to find bestowed ecstasy.

 

_“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”(3)_

 

And search he did. For he enjoyed to mimic the farce that was human love. He intertwined the skewed pieces of himself with the mucilage of his everlasting avidity, and joined them together in front of the mirror in euphoric symposium.

 

Sebastian rejoined with the separate part of himself, its evidence stained the mirror black.

 

A thing that existed to sin, came with the same purity of which sluiced the flow of milk and honey.

 

Like a feline, he stretched forward in sinuous leisure, on hands and knees, and unfolded his spine in the wake of his spent euphoria. Then he leaned in, and slathered his tongue over the cum that dirtied the mirror.

 

Vaguely, Sebastian felt the room draining itself of his shadowed delirium.

 

What was it that humans said about the passing of time—

 

It was then, that the sun shone through the windows of the manor’s drawing room in clogs of yellowed brilliance and bathed the room with life once more. Daylight.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Credit:  
> (1)In Edwin Mullins’ The Painted Witch, an analysis of how Western male artists view female sexuality, he writes:  
> “The artist invites us to pay lip-service to condemning her while offering us full permission to drool over her. She admires herself in the glass, while we treat the picture that purports to incriminate her as another kind of glass—a window—through which we peer and secretly desire her.”
> 
> (2) Jeremiah 4:30: “What are you doing, you devastated one? Why dress yourself in scarlet and put on jewels of gold? Why highlight your eyes with makeup? You adorn yourself in vain. Your lovers despise you; they want to kill you.”
> 
> (3)In Plato’s The Symposium, he writes:  
> “According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”  
> (4)--(613 mention) I literally typed out 613. It was a direct usage of an idea that Chromehoplite (Misshoplite) introduced in to the fandom, the idea is hers, and I built off of it ignorantly. I felt entitled to it. I was not. The credit for the idea is entirely hers.  
> -
> 
> As always, come talk to me on tumblr @teasmudge. 
> 
> (kudos and comments always make my heart giggle!)


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